


Stupid Cupid

by dandalfthedisco



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Ariadne doesn't have enough wall sex, Arthur is oblivious, Crack, Eames is shirtless, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandalfthedisco/pseuds/dandalfthedisco
Summary: Ariadne has A Plan.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MokuK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MokuK/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day, nyooomu! I hope you eat lots of candy and read even more good fic.
> 
> Extra chocolate to Corinne for betaing this.

They’re working a job together – again; this has somehow become a habit in the last year – when Ariadne has the idea.

Eames is winding Arthur up, as usual, and Arthur is gritting his teeth and trying to ignore him, as usual. It’s when Arthur finally snaps a pencil – a _mechanical_ pencil, how is that even _possible_? – that Ariadne looks at them and thinks: _this would be much easier if they just had angry sex against a wall_.

They clearly trust each other with their lives, and there must be some kind of sexual tension going on already, what with the flirty _darlings_ and _Mr. Eameses_ and the angry staring and random in-jokes and literally everything else about their relationship. Ariadne is fairly sure they’re both into men, they work well together, and despite the bickering, the end results are always excellent, so why shouldn’t the same apply to sleeping together?

The more she thinks about it, the better the idea seems. Getting regular sex would surely mellow them out a bit, and hopefully mellowing out would make them see that they actually get along together just fine, and maybe Ariadne could get through one job without anyone shouting or being insulted (or, on one memorable occasion, being pushed clothed into a swimming pool).

She looks at Eames gathering up the remains of Arthur’s shattered pencil and handing them back to Arthur with a shit-eating grin on his face, and she reaches a decision. She has A Plan.

*

Two days later Ariadne has dragged both Arthur and Eames out into the unexpectedly warm August night and then into a bar. The booth they’re sitting in is small; Ariadne subtly put her purse and jacket on the space next to her, leaving Arthur and Eames to sit next to each other opposite her. She _knows_ they must be touching in at least a couple of different places; with the limited space, there’s no way they’re not.

They talk about traveling and gossip about their colleagues for a long time, after which Ariadne turns the conversation to her own personal life, hoping it’ll be a good segue into _their_ personal lives. She’s just about to casually ask Eames if he’s interested in anyone special at the moment, when Arthur opens his mouth.

“Sorry, Ariadne, but I need to get going,” he says, and moves to get up. “I’ve been up since four, I need to sleep or I’ll be totally useless tomorrow.”

“No, no, no,” Ariadne says and grabs his arm from across the table in a desperate attempt to make him stay and listen to what a genuinely nice – and hopefully single – guy Eames is. “You haven’t even tried the cider yet, it’s awesome!”

Arthur smiles, but gets up and starts pulling his suit jacket on. “I promise to try it some other time. Don’t drink too much, and get each other back safely, okay?” he adds, and leaves.

“Well,” Eames says with a carefree grin and turns to Ariadne, “how about you and me try some of that cider, yeah?”

 _If at first you don’t succeed,_ Ariadne manages to think the next morning while so hung over she can barely stand up, and decides to try again.

*

The following October, Ariadne, Arthur, and Eames have completed an incredibly boring corporate job with the world’s dullest extractor, and Ariadne suggests going to dinner together to celebrate. Ten minutes after ordering, a completely unexpected and mysterious oncoming migraine forces Ariadne to take her steak in a to-go box and leave Arthur and Eames alone together for the evening. Surely, _surely_ the celebratory mood will make them extra hungry for hot kisses and possible wall sex and definite decreases in pencil-snapping.

The next morning she tries to inconspicuously check their necks for suspicious bruises and their eyes for signs of sleep deprivation, but with no results. When she apologizes to Arthur for leaving and asks him how the night went, Arthur says it was nice. Apparently after they’d eaten, Eames left for drinks with a local friend and Arthur went for a walk.

Ariadne smiles and tells him how nice it sounds (and oh, how she loathes the word “nice,” nothing genuinely good is ever described as “nice”), and retreats back to her own room to come up with a new plan. She _will_ succeed.

*

The job after that, they’re working in a Paris warehouse for the first time since the Fischer job almost six years ago, and Ariadne is feeling all kinds of nostalgic. She’s sure that both Arthur and Eames are smiling more than usual, too, even though their bickering is just as annoying (and weirdly sexually-charged) as always, which is what gives her the idea to execute her newest Plan right here at the worksite.

The perfect opportunity presents itself when not a minute after she heard the shower turn off in their small and disgusting bathroom, Arthur comes in through the front door. Ariadne quickly closes Minesweeper and makes herself look as busy as she can, pretending to have barely noticed Arthur’s entrance.

“I went to take a couple of touristy selfies in the museum,” Arthur says as he walks toward her desk. “I’ve never felt more disgusted with myself, but I managed to get a good view of all relevant cameras.”

“That’s great,” Ariadne says, trying to keep her tone as distracted as possible. “Hey, could you do me a favor real quick? Could you go ask Eames whether he’s ready to go under to check whether his boobs fit through the crack I made in the wall? He’s in the other room.”

“Sure,” Arthur replies, and turns to go. Ariadne can barely restrain her urge to tiptoe behind him and eavesdrop – _surely_ the sight of a wet and/or not-yet-fully-clothed Eames will make Arthur flustered and Eames extra flirty and something might finally happen – but she stays put and waits.

To her eternal disappointment, Arthur comes back after a perfectly respectable amount of time, and his ears, which always flush first if he’s feeling angry or embarrassed, haven’t changed color at all.

*

Ariadne tries two more times – a romantic boat ride and an actual gay club – but gives up by the time an unusually warm January is changing into a record-breakingly cold February in Massachusetts. They take up a job in Boston, and Ariadne watches Eames tease Arthur, Arthur take it the wrong way and get snippy, Eames become sarcastic and condescending in retaliation, and Arthur give him the silent treatment again, and again, and again. Maybe some people just aren’t meant to be together.

*

It early afternoon on Valentine’s Day, and Ariadne is already drunk. She’s carrying a grocery bag full of wine, chocolate, and pasta carbonara ingredients toward her hotel suite when Arthur comes out of the rooms next to hers and quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Hot date tonight?” he asks, and holds out his hand to help with the bag while she fumbles with her key card.

She rolls her eyes and almost trips over her own feet when the door finally opens. It takes a moment for the floor to stop spinning under her. “No way am I hosting Valentine’s dinner in my hotel room. And also, I’m single and will probably die alone surrounded by twelve cats. This is all for me. I will wine and dine and make sweet, sweet love to myself.”

Arthur snorts, but carries the bag to the counter in the tiny kitchenette. “Nothing wrong with cats. Want me to open a bottle for you?”

“Not yet,” she says and tries to get out of her boots, “but possibly very, very soon.”

Arthur just hums at her and starts to put her shopping away. Domesticity is a good look on him, and not for the first time, Ariadne wonders whether he’s one of those people who turns into an adorable little househusband when he get togethers with a partner. The thought is more than a little unnerving.

“You know,” she says before she can really think about it, “you really should get a boyfriend. Then you could get kisses for putting away the groceries. Because I’m not going to kiss you again. Eames would probably kiss you if you asked.”

Arthur snorts. “Eames would never let me put away the groceries, he’s completely anally-retentive about where stuff in the kitchen belongs.”

“But still,” Ariadne pushes, “you should hit on him! You’d be great together. I mean, really loud probably, but great.”

Arthur turns around to face her, his forehead crinkly because his eyebrows are nearing his hairline. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Eames! You could go on dates and have hot wall sex instead of arguing all the time!” Okay, so maybe she’s a little drunker than she thought she was, but there’s no backing down now.

She’s just preparing to lift her hand to start ticking off all of Eames’s date-able qualities with her fingers when Arthur blurts out: “Ariadne, did you not know that we’re married?”

It takes Ariadne a full three seconds to process what she just heard, and she bolts up from where she’d laid down on the sofa. She’s drunk, but she’s not drunk enough to not understand basic English. “What the fuck?”

“We’ve been married for four years,” Arthur says, looking like he’s both very confused and very much trying to hold in laughter. “How is it even possible to have missed that? We’re wearing _matching wedding bands_ , Ari.”

Ariadne looks at Arthur’s left hand, where indeed a gold band is on his ring finger. She has honest-to-God never noticed it before. She may be in the wrong line of work.

“But,” she splutters, trying to explain… something. “I’ve been trying to set you up for at least six months, why didn’t you say anything?”

“You have?” Arthur asks, frown of confusion still firmly etched on his face. He’s going to get stuck soon.

“She has,” Eames’s voice says from the direction of the doorway, and Ariadne realizes she forgot to close the suite door behind her. “I know you’ve got the observational skills of a sock, darling, but it was pretty obvious. I didn’t want to spoil her fun, it was too adorable.”

“A sock?” Arthur snaps, indignation coloring his voice. “Just because my job involves research and not –”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Ariadne interrupts him with a groan, “you’re a _literal old married couple_ , fuck, just… Go away and be married quietly somewhere else while I drink wine and despair of my life choices.”

“Yes, darling,” Eames says and winks at her before grabbing Arthur by the arm and leading him out of the room, “let’s go to our room and practice the act of loving each other like the strapping young men we are.”

Ariadne flops back down on the sofa, listening to Arthur and Eames’s bickering voices fading away as they walk out and shut the door. She lets out a completely undignified snort and smiles; her friends are happily together, she’s got the ingredients for a delicious meal, she’s young and hot, and if those two losers have found each other there is _definitely_ hope for her. Although apparently not for a peaceful workplace.

She gets back up, turns the TV on, and takes out a tiny plastic cup for the wine. It’s going to be a good night.


End file.
